To Own, Possess, & Treasure
by Hannibal the Animal
Summary: Oswald C. Cobblepot's world as defined by three words. A take on 'Penguin: Pain & Prejudice' in the political landscape of the 1950s. Oswald/Cassandra


**to own**; _adjective_**_: _****1. **of, pertaining

to, or belonging to oneself or itself.

_verb_**_: _****2. **to have or hold as one's own.

**3. **to acknowledge as having full claim,

authority, power, dominion, etc.

**4. **to confess

* * *

The year Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot had turned eighteen, the war had ended and he'd mercifully escaped any possibility of having to fight overseas. He'd also escaped the drafting that lasted until '47, though at that point, he'd already made such a name for himself that he had the connexions needed to get him out of those duties anyway. Of course, many doctors had already deemed him unfit to serve in the military due to his many childhood illnesses, his weight, his flat feet, and overall physical limitations. Having to fight for anyone other than himself would never be an issue.

Mother still warbled softly about how he was delicate and vulnerable, that he must be protected from the elements—both from nature and from the horrible people who saw only skin-deep. When she'd look at him through her clouded eyes, she'd call him beautiful and he'd almost believe her.

Now it was 1953 and he was in the dawn of his thirties, building an empire within Gotham City as both Oswald and as The Penguin. While many considered their criminal or hero personas a separate side of themself, the dual side to their coin, Oswald felt his moniker of Penguin as interchangeable. Penguin was his hidden self, the one shown to very few. It was the name that made him feel most powerful, the secret he knew that in a city obsessed with two sides—good and bad, criminal and legit, dark and light—made him a man of one face. A face to be feared and respected. But really, was there a difference between the two?

But even those who didn't know the Penguin could certainly sense that something lurked beneath the surface of Gotham's ugliest gentleman; something far darker and uglier yet. And as such, he commanded respect. Long gone were the days when he was mocked to his face. People conducted themselves based on his whims; they did not make eye contact, their smiles didn't go past their lips, their words were overly polite, and their handshakes sweaty. He was feared. People's lives were ruined—if not taken—once they got in his way. And their lives were lived to see his needs met.

He grimaced as he stepped out behind a small, unassuming office building next to the massive refrigerated warehouse that contained the frozen seafoods that were going to be delivered around the city. It was nearly the first day of summer and the sun beat down mercilessly on his unprotected face, heating his cool, nearly translucent skin; immediately he opened up his umbrella to shield himself and gave a quiet sigh of contentment. The world was always either too hot or too cold, but he preferred the cold, as it was far more familiar. Cold was the lack of people, the lack of affection, the lack of emotion. Cold was passion controlled, self-discipline, and absolute power.

Cold was Oswald C Cobblepot.

His cigarette holder was still between his lips and he quickly produced his case of cigarettes from the inside of his jacket, followed by the matching lighter as well. It wasn't long before the cigarette was lit and he was inhaling deeply. The cigarette was the finest quality money could buy, a brand that couldn't be found in Gotham; the smoke was far more fragrant than one might expect of tobacco. A slight smile curled on his lips as he thought about how his workers didn't know what they were missing with their cheap, hand rolled cigarettes. He liked knowing that he had things no one else did.

Cobblepot Seafood and The Iceberg Lounge were the two legitimate businesses he had started upon his legal coming-of-age; they were successful in their own right as he did possess exceptional enterprising drive, but their main importance was to act as the front to his black market commerce. That was where the real money lie. Most days he spent his time at the office building of Cobblepot Seafood or 'the cannery' as local slang referred to it. His office over looked the docks where fresh fish and shrimp were unloaded and while it wasn't a view he considered scenic in any way, it was still a visual reminder as to what all he owned here on Gotham's seafront. The office wasn't truly to his taste either, though it gave the police a false sense of who he was when they raided it every other month. His office hidden in the depths of the Iceberg Lounge was his true base of operation.

He was often flanked by two or more bodyguards—henchmen that were the perfect combination of intimidating and willing to die for him—but he occasionally managed time away from them and their fumbling, low-minded ways. A hidden door in his office led to the backside of the building and he occasionally slipped out to smoke a cigarette meditatively, watching the gulls flying around, hoping for a piece of the catch. He was considering lunch already. Pork tenderloins with an apricot glaze, perhaps. He would have to tell his secretary to place a call to one of the restaurants he preferred when he finally decided.

But this morning he had reserved his time to place heavy consideration on Mother's upcoming birthday and what he was going to get her. Something expensive of course. Jewellery. He blew smoke out of his long nostrils, pondering whom he'd seen in the socialite pages that had anything he wanted. He could always go the route of a custom piece, but it never had quite the same feel.

He shifted his weight from his left to his right, absentmindedly playing with his own one-of-a-kind cufflinks on the wrist of the hand that held his umbrella; they were small, white gold penguins and he'd had blood on them earlier this morning. His tic for order kept him polishing them between the thin leather gloves he wore everywhere. Lost in his own thoughts of sapphires and emeralds, he didn't truly register the sound of footsteps and something tapping the ground behind him.

Someone bumped into him and he let out a startled noise that sounded like a squawk; as he whipped around to strike down who ever had touched him, a hand grasped at his coat sleeve and he found himself facing a young woman wearing black lensed teashades almost identical to his own. In her left hand was a white collapsable cane that instantly gave away fact that she was not in fact touching him to be a nuisance, but because she was blind and hadn't seen him.

She was smiling and still holding onto his sleeve when she spoke. "Hello, could you help me?"

He was quiet. People didn't smile at him like that. They didn't use a friendly tone. They certainly didn't bump into him and then hang onto him. She held no fear of him. In fact, he could see himself in the reflection of her glasses and he was the one afraid.

The moment was lost when she let go of his arm, her smile more apologetic. "I'm sorry. I just…I'm lost. I'm trying to find my father. I had to bring him a letter. He works at the cannery."

He nodded, shifting from left foot to right. "Oh."

The smile became brighter again. "Could you tell me which building the cannery is in? Everything here's so loud and it all smells like fish, so I don't have any indicators where to go." She gave an embarrassed laugh, one of her hands traveling up to touch the side of her cheek, making her look almost bashful. "I've been wandering around for at least ten minutes and you're the first person I've come across."

"You're behind the buildings," he explained, holding his umbrella at a different angle so it shaded her as well.

"Oh! No wonder. I thought I'd gone to the wrong area entirely." Her cheeks flushed. "How _stupid_ of me!"

He shook his head, still unable to get his mind past the fact that she couldn't see him—a foreign concept to a man used to being stared at. "I can walk you there now."

Her skin was browned by the sun and warm; as her hand slipped into the crook of his elbow, he looked at her calloused fingers and short unadorned nails. Her bare arm brushed against his coat and she turned to him.

"Thank you so much. What's your name?"

_'If she knows who you are, this will change!'_ something in his mind hissed and he quickly avoided an answer.

"You said your father works at the cannery? What's his name? Couldn't a telegram have been sent?"

He was irritated now—not because he found her presence an inconvenience, but that the situation wasn't being handled as efficiently as he could. Who on earth sent a blind woman to deliver a message in the middle of the work day?

"It's from our landlord. He said my father needed to see it right away, so I decided it was best to bring it to him." She pulled a folded piece of paper out of her dress pocket. It was the same type of yellow that eviction notices were usually printed on. "Oh, my father's name is Arthur Jane. I'm Cassandra Jane. I'm sorry, I should have told you that in the first place."

Oswald glanced back down at her hand, which had tightened slightly on his arm and he realised he was looking for a wedding ring, albeit on the wrong hand. Embarrassed, but certainly relieved she couldn't see how awkward he was, Oswald again took to deflecting.

"If you're blind, how did you get down here?" His tone was a little sharper than he knew warranted, but he was uncomfortable.

"I took the bus. They do allow us on them, you know. We're just not allowed to drive," she teased.

When was the last time someone had tried to joke with him?

"How are you going to get back to your house?"

"The bus. I remember how to get back to the stop. It should arrive at the end of the hour," she replied.

"Would—would you prefer to be driven back?" he asked, his manners managing to take over for the moment.

Her eyebrows lifted. "Are you a driver here? For one of those delivery trucks? They're so loud—I've always wanted a ride in one."

Again, he wasn't quite sure what to say. Lying came easily enough to him, but he was still unsure what angle he was trying to play. He was staring at her quite openly even though he found it a rude habit, but she was a unanticipated element in his smoothly run life and he couldn't tell if she was unwelcome or…

"You're not very talkative, are you?" Her smile disappeared and her brow furrowed. "Oh, I'm talking too much, aren't I?"

Too much—not enough—Oswald wasn't sure. They'd reached the canning plant, which saved him from having to answer her; he opened the door to the large plant and a wave of cold, briny air hit him in the face. He plucked the letter out of her hand and slipped it in his jacket pocket.

"The floor boss will make sure your father gets the letter."

Her smile returned and he found himself looking into the black lenses of her glasses once more. "Oh, thank you so much."

Behind her, he could see his Rolls-Royce pulling up in front of the office building. "Come with me. Please."

"Where are we going?" she asked, her grip tightening around his arm as he began to walk faster.

"To my vehicle," he said, leading her along.

Upon reaching the limousine, he pulled away from her momentarily to speak to his driver in private. "You will take this young woman to whatever address she gives you."

The man adjusted his chauffeur's cap and nodded. "Yes, Mr Cobblepot."

He returned to Miss Jane's side, taking her by the arm once more.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"My driver will take you home. I don't want you to walk."

At this, her eyebrows rose once again. "Your driver? Who are you? I can't—"

"Please," he insisted as he opened the door to the back seat.

She was hesitant for a moment, then allowed herself to be directed into the vehicle. "Thank you."

"It's nothing."

"No, it's very generous," she said insistently, pulling her tanned legs all the way into the car.

The driver—whose window was rolled down—turned around to look at him. "I'll hurry back, Mr Cobblepot."

Oswald waved his hand at the driver, wishing he would keep his stupid mouth shut, while he kept his eyes on the young woman. Her face was turned towards him and he didn't have to see her eyes to know that she had realised exactly who he was. But he'd never have to see her again and it would be fine to maintain the role of absolute gentleman with her—he was gaining nothing by being rude, after all.

"Have a good afternoon, Miss Jane," he said before lifting her hand to kiss the back of it.

Her cheeks turned that lovely shade of pink again. "And you as well, Mr Cobblepot."

Oswald shut the door and nodded to his driver; as the car pulled away, he ran his hand over the section of his coat sleeve that she'd touched. It was slightly wrinkled from where her fingers had pulled and while he smoothed the fine cloth out, he paused in doing so.

One of the men who was supposed to be standing guard outside of his office door joined him outside. "Boss, the shipment's here."

"Good." He turned back towards the office building and felt himself beginning to shake off the unsettled way the woman had made him feel. "Harold is busy at the moment, tell them I'll be there before the ship sails."

His henchman nodded. "Yes, boss."

* * *

He didn't leave to inspect the ship until well after lunch (baked quail, roasted fingerling potatoes, two types of mango, and two pieces of chocolate cake), by which time he'd settled on Babs Chantell's Dragon Egg Ruby for Mother's birthday gift. He was suddenly in the mood for red and he was sure she would approve of his choice.

At the wharf on the other side of Gotham, there was an unassuming cargo ship with a Kazakh name painted in fading white paint in both the Cyrillic and Latin alphabet: the Aruzhan. It was a ship he only saw a few times a year, but it was a very important part of his empire. He boarded and was greeted by the deck boss, Omid, and the Captain, Yuriy.

"Gentlemen," he greeted and they returned acknowledging nods before leading him to the cargo below deck for him to inspect.

Omid was always the one to speak and Yuriy was simply there to glare. Oswald hated both men, but they were the best at what they did and he had no choice but to work with them. Omid was remarkably fluent in English, speaking it without a trace of any accent, but the captain was prone to poorly executed slang that was strung together haphazardly; Oswald doubted he even spoke his native tongue properly. He didn't care to work with crude individuals, but when there was money to be made…

"First on the list…" Omid motioned for one of the sailors to open a large wooden crate that was padlocked on one side.

The crate was opened to reveal a large metal cage containing almost a dozen women, all huddled together and weeping. Oswald studied them with cool disinterest as Omid leered through the bars at them, then turned to look back to him.

"We have an extra, if you'd like to take one for yourself."

Oswald shook his head. "They're all too sickly, too dirty, _too plain_."

"Fine by me." Omid paused in closing the crate again, pointing to a blonde with a black eye. "I would have guessed that that one would have been your type…"

"Type? _Hardly_," he scoffed.

"Not ladies' man?" Yuriy growled out, a smirk on his lips.

Oswald's eyes narrowed and he gripped the handle of his umbrella defensively. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Omid was quick to try to diffuse the situation. "Nothing, nothing, Yuriy is just trying to tell a joke. _Poorly_."

Yuriy's expression became more malicious. "You not want lady, why?"

Oswald took a step forward. "I **told** you. They aren't the quality I want."

The tension was broken when Yuriy let out a loud laugh then clapped him roughly on the shoulder. "Good, good. Ladies no good for you. No good for me, too."

Omid looked relieved that a fight hadn't broken out and Oswald brushed off his suit where the captain had touched him, giving an insipid smile.

"Show me the rest of the cargo."

The meeting on the cargo ship dragged on for another hour as Oswald inspected the quality of the rest of the stolen goods: luxury cars, racehorses, alcohol, and oil paintings. They were all destined for the Arabian Peninsula, sure to bring him good money and when the ship returned, it would be loaded down with exotic animals, ancient artifacts, and young women with dark hair and dark skin. All commodities for him to sell to Gotham and its surrounding areas, all to make him money that he could spend on things that made him happy.

And of course, to spend on Mother. When he returned to the cannery, the three men responsible for obtaining his most recent desire for her had already arrived with the prize. They sat in his office, looking uncomfortable and fidgeting—this pleased him. No need for them to think they had any authority where he stood. They turned to look at him as he walked around to sit at his desk, and he eyed them in return. One of them—a man whose hair was a little _too_ long to be considered respectable—pulled a bundle out of his coat pocket.

"The necklace, boss."

Wrapped in a simple chamois cloth was the ruby, still attached to the heavy gold chain it had been affixed to. As much as he despised the trio, they were certainly professionals—they'd even kept the chain from scratching the ruby's surface.

"Very good. It's better than I imagined," he murmured, turning it over in his gloved hands. He frowned however when he spotted something marring the side. "There's still blood on it."

"We're throwing it in for free," one of the thieves laughed. "She was in her house, getting ready for that charity thing Wayne is putting on tonight."

Oswald waved them away in distaste—he didn't want to hear Bruce Wayne's name while he was looking at a present.

"When I have further work for you, I'll let you know," he told them, pointing to a stack of cigar boxes on one of the file cabinets beneath the window over looking the boats.

They hurried over to pick them up; they were filled with the money he'd arranged for them and upon receiving it, they left in haste, gleeful. Oswald picked up his office phone, dialing the extension for the cannery building.

"Have Arthur Jane brought to my office," he ordered to the floor man who answered.

"Yes, boss."

As he waited, he returned his attention back to the 'Dragon Egg'; he could see his reflection in the large face of the ruby and he smiled slightly as he noted at how perfect it was. The red was rich and the transparency was exceptional, as were the finely proportioned cuts to create each facet. Money and thievery could _truly_ get anything the heart desired. There was a knock on the door shortly thereafter and he put the ruby away in one of his desk drawers. Arthur Jane was let in by one of Oswald's henchmen standing outside the office; Jane was just as gangly as his daughter and possessed the same auburn hair, as well as the same smile, though there was definitely fear and apprehension in his eyes.

"You wanted to see me, Mr Cobblepot?" he asked as he took off his cap.

"Yes, come in."

Jane shut the door behind him and took a few limping steps forward until he was standing in front of Oswald's desk.

Oswald leaned back in his seat, giving Jane a critical look before speaking. "Mr Jane, are you the sole provider for your family?"

"Yes, Mr Cobblepot."

"And you make a good wage here at your job?" he challenged.

"Yes, Mr Cobblepot."

"And yet you are behind in your rent. Why?"

Jane's cheery smile was gone and he stared at Oswald in open fear. Oswald's eyes narrowed.

"I asked you a question."

Jane cleared his throat, twisting his cap in his hands. "My daughter, sir…she's blind."

"And?"

"Our flat was broken into two months ago. Many of her things were taken or ruined and because much of it is specialty, it's cost a lot to replace."

Oswald believed him, but he still wanted to watch him squirm a little longer. "Such as?"

"Her braille typewriter. She needed to have it replaced so she could continue her literature class."

"Did you buy it for her?"

"Yes, sir."

Oswald slid the eviction notice across the desk and Jane picked it up, his face becoming pale. When the slender man opened his mouth to speak, Oswald held up a hand to silence him.

"I've already called your landlord and taken care of your rent situation. You don't have to worry about it this month. Or the next."

"Mr Cobblepot, I—"

"You are responsible for your family, Mr Jane. Don't let this happen again."

Jane's smile returned. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Thank you very much, sir!"

Indifferent, Oswald dismissed him. "Get back to work."

* * *

That evening Oswald sat in the Arena, a pit with elevated seating to watch the gladiatorial games being held below. It was only used once a month, located in the sub-level of the Iceberg Lounge and at the moment he was flanked by two scantily clad women that someone had brought along. They were drinking the champagne by the bottle and Oswald grimaced at their classless ways; he'd already grown tired of the way they'd tried to flatter him, so he was in the process of ignoring them as he watched the bloodsport below.

Two average men who needed to be punished for the sake of others' entertainment were thrown into the middle of sand filled Arena; a coin was flipped and whomever called it was able to pick first from the assortment of weapons provided. They'd fight until someone was too wounded to carry on and then that person would be killed. Alas, for the victor even winning wasn't going to save them. They'd be allowed a glass of champagne and then one of the henchmen would shot them in the head.

There were always two guests of honour, the ones that had picked the gladiators for the night. Tonight the Joker had arrived with his partner in crime, Harley Quinn; both were painted up in their clown makeup, though only Joker was costumed, Harley adopting a relatively normal appearance otherwise. They were laughing gaily and pointing at the police officer they'd brought along. He was still in his uniform and had grabbed a baseball bat with seven-inch nails driven through the end. Not a perfect weapon, but better than nothing.

To his right was Arnold 'The Ventriloquist' Wesker and his dummy 'Scarface', the face of his criminal career. Sitting beside Wesker was the dummy's moll, Aileen, a gorgeous blonde woman who was spilling out of the champagne coloured dress she had on. Scarface was watching the fight with great interest; they'd brought a sweaty man in a business suit, who'd managed to snatch up the machete, though he was having a hard time maintaining the endurance needed to keep swinging it.

The only reason Oswald tolerated the Ventriloquist was due to the sharp way he dressed himself and his dummy. Frankly, he thought the charade of Scarface to be tiring, though somewhat interesting, as it was tonight. Aileen gave Oswald a sultry look through heavily lidded eyes before leaning over to whisper something in the dummy's ear.

'Scarface' jerked away from her, snapping, "Well, talk to him about it! I trying to watch the game!"

Aileen smirked, then began whispering in Wesker's ear. Oswald found the 'trio's' interaction more interesting than what was happening between the men in the pit, so he continued watching them shamelessly. Wesker finally nodded and Aileen grinned, standing up. The trio—man, woman, and dummy—left the seating box, exiting the Arena, leaving him to listen to the drunken nattering of the two women on either side of him—their crude attempts to flatter him and his virility were irritating to him. It would be obvious to anyone that they were simply trying to find their way into his wallet—not his pants.

Much to everyone's amazement, the man in the blue business suit had managed to disarm the police officer, who was now cornered without anything. Everyone turned expectantly to him—the Emperor Penguin—to see what the fate of the men would be…even though everyone already _knew_ what was about to happen.

Oswald stood and looked down at the police officer, whose eyes were large and pleading, and then glanced to the business suited champion, who was looking rather hopeful, believing that he'd actually won the game. Oswald was tired and ready to go home so he gave a thumbs down. The man in the blue suit continued looking at him, waiting to know how he was to execute the loser. Oswald wasn't in the mood so he turned to Harley, tapping his cigarette ashes over the edge of the arena.

"Ladies' choice."

She looked thrilled and leaned of the edge of the box, screaming, "Cut off his head!"

It wasn't clean and took a few hacks for it to come off all the way, but the night's audience seemed rather pleased, cheering and shouting loudly their approval that the victor. Of course, not everyone seemed to enjoy the spectacle: the raven haired girl to his right threw up, while the brunette passed out, falling to the floor at his feet. Joker began cackling at the sight of the two women that had accompanied him this night.

"Good call! We should bring these birds around next month!"

Still standing, Oswald gestured to the various attendees.

"Gentlemen, ladies, I believe I'll taking my leave for the evening."

Harley didn't take her eyes off the violence below, simply waving her fingers in his general direction. "Toodles."

Joker raised a glass to him, but aside from that, no one else spared him a second glance. His eyes narrowed slightly behind his monocle, but he said nothing. No, they were lesser than him, unmannered barbarians that thought they were worthy of what he offered to them. But it was better to keep up appearances among them and so he said nothing, instead plotting against every single one of them as he left the Arena. Walking down the hallway, flanked by his two bodyguards, he allowed his fists to clench a few times before getting his outward appearance under control once more. He grimaced as he heard Wesker's dummy and Aileen making obscene noises from one of the chambers that frequently held people being tortured; the henchman to his left snorted and Oswald raised an eyebrow at the reaction. Disgusting, philistine idiot. If he couldn't act like an adult in this world—where he would be around matters far more animalistic—then he didn't belong here.

Oswald would have him disposed of by the end of the night.

As he walked through the dance floor to the main entrance where his car awaited, his eyes landed on a woman with her back turned to him. Under normal circumstances, his eyes would have passed over her without anything more than a bare registration, but instead he stopped, dead in his tracks. For a few infinitely long seconds, he stared intently as a rush of hope coursed through him; but then she turned around and he could see she not Cassandra Jane; in the blue hued lighting of the Lounge he could see her hair was in fact not auburn, she was too pale, her thighs and arms were bigger and…

She just wasn't the right one.

"What is it, boss?" the man to his left growled, his head scanning the crowd of people milling around.

Oswald shook his head. "Nothing. I thought I recognised one of our patrons tonight."

He realised that he had almost smiled at the thought of seeing _her_ and quickly hurried out of the Lounge for the night.


End file.
